Three poems by Bruce Morton

The Old Man, He Ordered

Steak. He always ordered steak.
Well done, he tells the waiter.
Smart ass, I asked if he wanted it
With grommets. He did not
Understand that steak well
Done, was not done well at all.
Well, he did not care. And I must
Say, we found it exceptionally rare
When the chef appeared
At our table to inform us, him,
That he would not, could not,
In good conscience, possibly do
That to a piece of meat. That when
You chew flesh it should bleed.

Mixology

We watch her as she takes her orders,
Tends to each desire. She takes a little
Of this and a little of that. And what
Does she do? Mixes the spirits. Some
She will stir, some she will shake. It all
Depends on whatever the this or that
May be. The bitters, the bitters are
a science. With the swizzle she is deft
And gentle--easy does it. Then there are
Those that need to be shaken. She falls
Into a rhythm that she creates. The shaker
Becomes a musical instrument she plays
Without a score, from which she will pour.
There may or may not be a garnish or twist.

My God

My god, enough. Already
There are too many. Everyone's
Got their one and only, chosen
From the god buffet. What to say?
My god is better than your god?
The dogmas, off leash, growl
At each other's adherents.
There are always enough to go
Around, it seems. Enough to die
For, for more have died for their
God than any other plague, infected
By a pestilence of holy pleas. And,
Yes, there is always some prophet
Who preaches, panders, and profits.